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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27720106">The Work of Mourning</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/traincar/pseuds/traincar'>traincar</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post-Episode: s15e20 Carry On</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 16:34:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,348</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27720106</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/traincar/pseuds/traincar</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Grief is a heavy thing to hold onto for thirty-some years.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Work of Mourning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The weight of it hits him the moment Dean's gone. Not in the barn, no. When he's gone. When Sam stands by the pyre and feels the heat of his brother's death on his face, that's when it hits him. This iron ball, heavy and solid and awful, sits right in his gut, burns his fingers and his toes and fills his lungs with fire. This palpable, tangible cancer that sits inside of him like a crab in a shell knocks him to his knees in the dirt. He allows himself a moment, only one, to choke on his own spit and snot as he sobs into the mud and ash where Dean's body used to be. </p><p><br/>When his legs can hold his weight again and the skin around his eyes burns, he goes to Dean's car and sits in Dean's seat and puts on Dean's watch and he punches the steering wheel until he hears a crack in his hand and it feels so good he wants to cry all over again.</p><p><br/>The formation of grief sits in the passenger seat, where he used to, and Sam drives.</p><p><br/>-</p><p><br/>The hardest part of all of it is time. </p><p><br/>Sam spent his whole life with Dean fighting the hourglass, making deals and bargains and pleas for one more grain of sand to be added, for just a little more time (just a little). And he finds it a little ironic then, that the last thing he takes from Dean in his pain-in-the-ass-little-brother-defiance, is his watch. Even now, he looks down at it with a sense of longing, and when the dog barks in the next room over, he wonders how long it's been for him, how many seven-year-spans Miracle has spent waiting for Dean to come back.</p><p><br/>-</p><p> </p><p>The lead boulder Sam carries becomes a part of him. He wears it like a backpack, shoulders the weight of it the best he can, and lives. </p><p><br/>-</p><p><br/>The grief becomes suspended like the disbelief in a magic trick when Sam picks up the weight of a tiny human being on the dirty floor of a wrecked home. </p><p><br/>At the bunker, little, chubby fingers grab at his in fascination and Miracle sniffs so hard at the baby Sam swears he knows who it is. He spreads word like the baby belongs on the back of a milk carton and comes up empty when his network of contacts hits a wall. One of them tells him to raise the kid as his own. Sam laughs, thinks it might be the first time he has since Dean, and figures if he's going to hurt his heart he might as well rip it out. </p><p><br/>In the dark, late at night, he rocks the baby in his arms until the tiny being falls asleep, feels a pride puff up in his chest and thinks, yes, I can use what I've learned for this little thing in my arms. He names the baby Dean, fills the silence with his brother's name.</p><p><br/>Baby stops crying, stills. Sam's jaw shakes like it's unhinged when he puts the baby in his crib, says <em>goodnight, Dean</em> and kisses the tiny forehead. </p><p><br/>Hands empty, grief restored, Sam stands in the dark room for a long time and waits for a <em>goodnight, Sam</em>. </p><p><br/>-</p><p><br/>He calls the kid by his brother's name until the name becomes the kid's. His kid.</p><p><br/>Dad is what he goes by now after <em>da</em> and <em>dada</em> and <em>daddy</em>. The baby grows up and learns. Walks and talks and eats and sleeps and Sam is responsible for every one of those things now, the weight of someone else's life heavier than his grief, heavier than the funeral procession that plays for his brother on an infinite loop. </p><p><br/>He pushes the boulder of grief up the hill in every moment he spends raising his son, then lets it roll over him and crush him like Sisyphus. Every trip gets easier, so every day he gets up and pushes it again, roots his feet in the dirt until his son says <em>dad, the dog</em> and the two of them have to bury Miracle in the yard.</p><p><br/>Crushing his chest, the dog's death sits on him like an anchor, and when his son says <em>all dogs go to Heaven</em>, Sam sits outside and sobs long after the grave's been packed and the air's gone cold.</p><p><br/>-</p><p><br/>Because it's inevitable, Sam sits in the car. </p><p>The steering wheel is still slightly warped from all that punching Sam did to it years ago, but Baby is otherwise the same. He tells his son how to care for the car and recites all the repairs made and Dean would be proud, he knows it. That's why it's so hard to sit here, hands on the wheel and his heart in his throat, because he hasn't been in the passenger seat since Dean.</p><p><br/>But this is Dean's car, so it makes sense.</p><p><br/>The only thing sitting in the passenger seat is his grief, left there all those years ago, until he sits there, where he used to, and closes the door.</p><p><br/>Guiding his son, Baby cruises out onto the highway and graces the road and Sam's breath catches in his chest when his son rolls down his window and turns the radio on. Music pushes through the old speakers and the wind whips Sam's graying hair back and when he turns his head he swears he can see his brother's laugh lines.</p><p><br/>His son sings along loudly and drums his fingers on the wheel and Sam has to hold his chest with both hands to keep his heart from spilling out on the interior.</p><p><br/>-</p><p><br/>His heart, the busted thing, is what'll kill him. His heart's been broken for thirty years, so it doesn't surprise him when it shatters completely. Not literally, of course, since Sam's been bandaging the organ for three whole decades, but it won't beat like it should and it simply can't go on.</p><p><br/>He grabs a case of beer, throws some ice in the dusty, green cooler he pulls out from the garage and drives his son up to the mountains. Way at the top, when there are no trees and just rocks, he fills in all the blanks for his son. The grief teeters at the top of the mountain with them, tiptoes along the edge like a circus performer on a tightrope, but the beer loosens his tongue and pinks his cheeks and he's okay. His son clinks the necks of their beers, claps his knee and says <em>tell me more about Uncle Dean</em>, so Sam does.</p><p><br/>-</p><p><br/>His heart gets him when he's shoveling snow, so mundane and pathetic and perfect that Sam swears he can hear his brother laughing.</p><p><br/>-</p><p><br/>That tiny, chubby baby with fascination in his eyes stares at him now as a man and Sam's ribs ache with a love he can't contain. He holds his hand, his son's hand, and asks for the same thing his brother did before the grief crushed Sam's heart. This man-who-was-a-boy gave him as much a reason to live as his brother did and the only thing left for them to share is goodbye. </p><p><br/>Fingers curl around his the same way they did when Sam first picked him up and his broken heart swells in relief. Grief is a heavy thing to hold onto for thirty-some years. His son grants him permission, and when Sam lets go of his hand, he lets go of the grief, too.</p><p><br/>-</p><p><br/>The irony of the bridge isn't lost on Sam. </p><p><br/>Neither is his body, really, back to nearing forty and still whole, and only then does he realize he gets to pick up where they left off. </p><p><br/>The man on the bridge lifts his head up, eases his shoulders back and Sam can see the crinkle of laugh lines before anything else. Weightlessly, he sticks his hands in his pockets, straightens up in a way he couldn't do before when the guilt was far too heavy, and breathes.</p><p><br/>His brother smiles and so Sam does, too.</p><p><br/>"Hey, Sammy."</p><p><br/>"Dean."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>“I did not know the work of mourning<br/>Is like carrying a bag of cement<br/>Up a mountain at night</p><p>The mountaintop is not in sight<br/>Because there is no mountaintop<br/>Poor Sisyphus grief</p><p>I did not know I would struggle<br/>Through a ragged underbrush<br/>Without an upward path</p><p>...</p><p>Look closely and you will see<br/>Almost everyone carrying bags<br/>Of cement on their shoulders</p><p>That’s why it takes courage<br/>To get out of bed in the morning<br/>And climb into the day.” <br/>― Edward Hirsch, Gabriel: A Poem</p></blockquote></div></div>
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